


Demonstrable Appreciation

by DoubleNegative



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Established Relationship, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 13:14:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2111238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubleNegative/pseuds/DoubleNegative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes loves John Watson's hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Demonstrable Appreciation

Astute readers of Watson’s stories may note that he has something of a fascination with my hands. I cannot say I mind this, though I would prefer he keep it between the two of us, and spend his energies _demonstrating_ his appreciation, rather than waxing rhapsodic about it in popular periodicals. When I point this out to him, however, he merely smiles, in that fond and exasperated way he has, and lets the fingers of one hand drift toward his mouth, to tug at his mustache, perhaps, or to smooth over his bottom lip.

It is just possible that I have a weakness equal to his own, and that he is not above exploiting it.

I cannot help it: Watson has perfect hands. They are small, but no less beautiful for it. His hands are not as long in the finger as mine, but rather broader through the palm, and equally as scarred and calloused, though in different ways. If I have musician’s hands, his are the hands of a craftsman: strong, competent, efficient and practiced in all their movements.  Few things bring me more pleasure than watching his dextrous fingers at work over some task. I have found myself mesmerized even as he is stitching up some wound of mine, distracted from my pain by the slip and pull of the muscles and tendons below the skin.

The tan he acquired abroad has faded, but the tiny freckles on the backs of his hands remain, scattered across his knuckles and nearly invisible to the casual observer. But I have memorized every one of them and traced the constellations that they form. I know most intimately the callous on his forefinger from the hours spent bent over his manuscripts, and the thickened skin on his palm, where the head of his walking stick digs into his hand. He leans on it less heavily these days, thank God, and those roughened patches are softening, but there are times even now, when February’s cold stiffens his leg and bites at his shoulder, that the red marks it leaves on his palm linger for hours. I do my best to soothe them with my own hands, and with my lips and tongue besides, and if I cannot tease away his hurts entirely, at least I can provide a distraction.

Over the years of our friendship, I have spent a considerable sum of time in the study of Watson’s hands, covertly at first, and later, after affairs between us shifted, in open fascination. He humors me more than I deserve, my Watson, and will patiently sip his tea while I turn one of his hands and then the other over and over in mine, memorizing every new detail and reacquainting myself with the old.

More often than not, these sessions end with the tea abandoned to cool on the table, and the two of us retiring early, to take our examination to more private quarters. Such was the case this afternoon, in fact, and that is what led to our current arrangement: me flat on my back on our bed, and Watson knelt between my legs, two fingers buried deep in my arse, and not a stitch of clothing between us. Sweat slicked our flushed skin, and I found myself with one hand braced above my head to clutch at the bedpost, and the other flung across my face, in a desperate attempt to muffle the noises Watson drew from me with every crook and twist of his clever, clever fingers.

I have been called a genius all my life, and with just cause, but in Watson’s small, strong, perfect hands, I am good for nothing but witless babbling. Above me, Watson smiles, a certain secret, wicked grin he wears for me alone, and withdraws his fingers slowly, pressing down against my hip with his other hand as I thrust up in a fruitless effort to follow them. He only coats them in more oil, however, and slips them back home, along with a third--slowly, slowly, so agonizingly slowly that I can only whimper and roll my hips against his restraining hand.

I am torn between the impulse to surrender utterly to his ministrations, to let my head fall back against the pillow and shut my eyes while I let him do as he will, and the desperate urge to watch. In the end I cannot tear my eyes away from the sight of his wiry confident hands: one disappearing between my wantonly spread thighs and the other wrapped around my straining cock. The back of his hand is slick with perspiration and the tendons stand out where he grips me.

“Please,” I whisper. “Please, _John_ \--”

“Shh, I know,” he replies, his voice as thick with desire as my own. “I have you. Let me see you now, let me see you come for me.” And with one last twist of his hand, one final crook of his fingers within me, I am doing just as he asked, spending in hot spurts over his fist and my own stomach, pressing my hand against my mouth to muffle my shout.

“Mmm,” he says some time later, stretching out beside me and splaying one hand over my chest, where it makes a startling contrast to my own pale skin. “I sometimes wonder if it is me you love or my hands, but if it leads to results such as these, I certainly will not complain.” I can hear the fond smile in his voice as he says it, softening any bite the words might have.

“I might ask you the same question,” I reply with as much tartness as I can manage in my sleepy, sated condition. Watson makes no reply, but his affectionate chuckle, and the warmth of his hands on my skin, are the last things I am aware of before I drift off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> For the Come at Once challenge, and the prompt "good things come in small packages." I... interpreted it loosely, as I am wont to do. Given the X-TREME TIME CONSTRAINTS of this challenge (and the fact that I uh, forgot about it for most of the day), this has not been beta'd, Brit-picked, or Victorian-picked. Have mercy. 
> 
> This is also my first (published) attempt at an ACD!Holmes/Watson fic, so hey, that's an exciting thing that happened. It certainly won't be the last, though, so uh--brace yourselves, I s'pose?
> 
> Finally, if you love John Watson gifs, whining about the writing process, and quite a lot of enthusiastically-reblogged tattoo!lock, then you are in luck! I provide all of those things and more at onethousandhurrahs.tumblr.com.


End file.
